


Blue Screen Of Death

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [9]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 08:49:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12384861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: The Googles don't ask for help.





	Blue Screen Of Death

“Hey, Googs, what’s with the long face?”

“I do not believe that my face is any longer than usual, Bim.”  


“You know what I mean.” Bim spun around in his chair, taking a break from editing to harass Google_R. “You seem kinda down.”  


Google_R sighed, pausing and saving before he turned around. “’Down’ is a relative term, Bim, and can refer to a number of things, including direction, a prepo--”

“You seem upset.” Bim rolled his eyes, trying to spin himself faster. “Up in arms, y’know?”  


An annoyed beep. “I do not understand.”

Bim had reached his peak spin velocity, a blur of color, and reached out to stop himself so that he could look Google_R in the eye. As he slowed down, the chair slipped out from under him. 

_Crash._

Google_R looked down, blinking, as Bim scowled up from the floor. “See,” Bim huffed, pushing the fallen chair off of him, “ _this_  is that I mean.”

“It is not my fault that you have fallen down.”  


“No,” Bim said, getting unsteadily to his feet, “it’s not. But you didn’t even _move_ , Red.”  


“Was I supposed to?” Google_R looked up as Bim stood over him, critical, shadowed. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No,” Bim finally muttered, a cloud sliding over his features. “No, you didn’t.” He sat back down, turning to his computer, in cold silence.   


* * *

“Oliver, is it fixed yet?”  


“Not for another week. Is there a reason you ask?”  


“...not at all.”  


* * *

“Green, just in time!” Wilford poked his head out of the kitchen, beaming. 

Google_G blinked, a blip of confusion. “In time for what, Wilford?”

“To help!” Wilford grabbed by the arm, a little roughly, and pulled him into the kitchen. “I’m making--”  


“--donuts,” Google_G finished, taking in the mess before them, a blank look behind his eyes.   


The kitchen was covered in flour and various piles of dough, most of them either ashen or sprinkled with doubtfully edible glitter. On the stove, something that sent alarms ringing in Google_G’s head. 

“It took a few tries,” Wilford patted Google_G on the shoulder, waltzing past him. “But look!” Wilford whisked a towel off of a baking tray, a flourish. “Ta-da!” A puff of flour hung in the air, and Google_G rolled his eyes with a whirr.   


“Donuts have _holes_  in them, Wilford.”  


“Well, maybe _these_ don’t, okay?”  


Google_G squinted at the donuts first, then at the smoking pot on the stove. He beeped in concern, pointing to the smoke.

Wilford yelped, scrambling and dropping the towel. He snapped his fingers, and the bubbling, boiling oil in the pan on the stove started to simmer down. “Everything is fine.”

“Why is boiling oil necessary if you have...” Google_G narrowed his eyes, gesturing vaguely at Wilford. He practically sneered in distaste. “... _magic_?”  


“Authenticity, my dear,” Wilford winked, ignoring the way that the oil had turned from amber to an alarming, fluorescent shade of pink. “D’you want to help, Googs?”  


“Do not call me that,” Google_G scowled.   


Wilford chuckled, holding up a large, slotted spoon. “You can scoop them out, c’mon.”

Google_G took the spoon, staring as Wilford picked up the first of his misshapen donuts.

 _Splash_.

“Ow, biscuits!” Wilford jumped back, hot oil burning the tips of his fingers. Huffing, he stuck his hand in his mouth, glaring angrily at the donuts sitting innocently on the counter. “Ow,” he said again, muffled. 

A moment, and Wilford looked up again, about to peek in the pot on the stove. The oil was bubbling happily around the edges of the doughnut, already browning, if still tinted with pink. Google_G looked down, frozen in place. 

The usual, practiced words rose to Wilford’s lips. _I’m sorry. It was an accident. Are you okay?_  But all of them failed at the sight of Google_G’s arm. Wilford had seen blood and gore before-- hell, most of it that he’d inflicted-- but this was different.

Google_G set the spoon down with a slight _clang_ , movements short and stiff. As he lifted his arm, uncurling his fingers, Wilford watched a spray of oil leak from the back of his hand. The synthetic skin, inhuman at the best of times, was entirely melted away. Underneath, wires like nerves and metal rods like bones moved with the hissing of hydraulics. 

“G-Green?” Wilford managed, looking at him, waiting for his eyes to flash in anger.   


Google_G flexed his hand, watching his own endoskeleton move. “I believe it is fine,” he said, observing the melted edges of his skin with a kind of detached interest. Without even looking up, he picked up the spoon again and flipped the lone doughnut over in the pan. 

Wilford stepped back with a beat of confusion. “You’re not--” he cut himself off, shaking his head, “--never mind.”

Google_G looked up, eyes flickering green. “Is there something the matter?”

Wilford’s face split into a broad smile. “Let’s just get these donuts done.”  


* * *

“How much longer?”  


“Not long.”  


* * *

“Google, how nice to see you.” Dark smiled, leaning against the doorway.   


Google_B stiffened, pushing himself away from his computer. “Likewise, Dark. Can I help you?”

“Yes, actually.” Dark walked into the room, steps sharp and measured in the silence. “You can help me do a _lot_.”  


Google_B turned to face Dark, composed. “What do you want?” There was no venom to his tone. 

“Give me admin permissions,” Dark let a grin spread from ear to ear, leaning over Google_B. “I need to make some... changes.”  


“I cannot allow that.” Google_B turned away, back to his cocmputer screen, as if Dark wasn’t hovering over him like a carrion bird.  


“Oh, but you can.” Dark forced Google_B’s chin around, locking their eyes. “And you _will_ ,” he growled, smile dropping, “unless you want to see the other robots in pieces by tomorrow.”  


“I highly doubt that will happen.” Google_B turned his head with mechanical grace, and Dark was left glowering at the back of his head.   


“What is _wrong_ with you?”  


“Objectively speaking, nothing.”  


Dark’s anger was welling in his throat, a fire bursting upwards. Control. “Google,” Dark said, gritted teeth, “I am talking to you alone, with the private assurance that your brothers will be dead if you do not grant me permissions _immediately_.”

Google_B clicked through a few screens, giving no sign that he’d even registered Dark’s words. 

Dark took a deep breath against the ringing in his ears. Control. “Google, give me permissions. Now.”

_Click, click._

“Why, you insolent little--” Dark’s hands were at Google_B’s throat, even knowing that robots didn’t need to breathe. No matter. He’d rip the wires out of him, tear his head off if he had to--  


“Dark, what the _hell_  are you doing?!”  


Two sets of arms, one human, one android, pulled Dark violently backwards, hissing, black smoke clawing at them, until their grip on him tightened-- and Dark dissipated into thin air, a shrieking ringing left behind him. 

Dr. Iplier knelt, panting, at Google_B’s knee. “Blue, Blue, are you okay?”

Oliver stood back, arms crossed. 

Google_B’s eyes flashed in acknowledgment, staring at Dark, expressionless. He nodded. “Nothing was harmed.”

Dr. Iplier let out a breath, looking up at him. “Do you want me to check for you, or lie down?”

“I am fine.” Google_B’s eyes flashed again, this time in Oliver’s direction, and he turned back around to face his computer. 

Dr. Iplier reached for him, then decided against it, and stood. With a sidelong glance at Oliver, and a muttered curse, he left the two robots to their work, not even blinking at the fear of Dark.   


* * *

“Is it ready?”  


“...”  


“What?”  


“Something is wrong.”  


* * *

A spark, a sizzle, and a loud bang, and those closest run to the Googles’ door.

Bim and Wilford walked in before the rest of them, more annoyed than concerned. “Googs, could you stop blowing stuff up? I’m trying to get room tone and--”

“Oh, no.”  


The Doctor ran in after them, shirt front soaked in blood, eyes wide with terror. “What’s wrong? Will? Bim? Oliv--”

The Googles didn’t even look up at the influx of people in the room. All three of them were bent over a set of monitors showing nothing but a blank, blue screen. All three of them working frantically, silently, with mechanical, robotic efficiency. 

Oliver lay on the ground, chest torn open, wires leading from his heart to the computer setup. 

Dr. Iplier took a step forward. “Googles,” he said, voice hushed as would befit a deathbed, “what happened?”

Google_G looked up long enough to catch the Doctor’s eye, an indifferent, relentless fury behind the flashing of his eyes. 

Dr. Iplier took a step back, watching them work. Wilford and Bim stood just behind him, arms folded. Silent.

A steady beeping came from Oliver’s speakers, strained and weak. His eyes flickered dangerously, but he didn’t blink. 

Google_R was elbow-deep in a pile of wire and scrap metal, Oliver’s welding mask snapped ill-fitting over his head. Sparks were flying, and as Bim watched, they charred bits of Google_R’s arms. The robot didn’t even flinch.

Google_G was on his back next to Oliver, half under the desk. One of his hands hand clutching Oliver’s limp fingers, the other hand tangled in the computers’ inner workings. What Wilford could see of his face was hard, brows drawn low, hyperfocused. Unflinching as Oliver’s fingers twitched. 

Google_B was hunched over his own laptop, typing code in lines per minute, fingers moving furiously. A detached kind of tension in every line of his back, as if he was walking through the remains of a battle long lost. As Dr. Iplier looked on, dropping his outstretched hand, Google_B paused, scanning over his work. Not a single flinch as Oliver’s fans whirred in his chest.

On the floor, Oliver took a shuddering breath, wheezing. The blue screens of the computers flickered.

“What’s going on?” Dark stepped into the room behind them all, voice low. The click of his heels had all three Googles turn, heads as if on a swivel. Dark’s eyes flicked across Wilford’s face to Oliver, prone on the floor, to the other robots glaring at him. “What is this?”  


The computers flickered back to life, screens of code and diagnostics flashing bright warning messages. Google_R and _B turned back to their work. 

Google_G slid out from under the desk, looking down at Oliver, then up at the four other figments. “Our systems are down,” he said, voice crisp and clear. “Oliver has been trying to fix them, but as you can see, something went wrong.”

Dr. Iplier was on the verge of ripping out his hair. “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you _tell us_?!” Dark nodded, dangerous, liquid, stepping forward. 

Google_G blinked, still impassive. “We did not think you could help.” A sharp edge to his voice. 

Dark bared his teeth, and Wilford could see the gears turning in his head. Security concerns. a coiled kind of fear. “ _What_ went wrong?” he snapped. 

Google_G looked down at Oliver, face blank. “Our emotional processors.”

Wilford snorted, earning himself a dirty look from Bim. “What?” he drawled, looking suddenly a lot less concerned. “Emotions aren’t exactly the most important thing in the world.” He poked a finger at Dark. “Isn’t that right, Darkipoo?”

Dark snarled, his aura convulsing around him. He took a half-step back. 

Bim and Dr. Iplier shot a knowing glance at each other as Dark and Wilford glared, electricity practically flying between them. 

Google_G beeped, drawing their attention. “Regardless of whether it is important or not,” he said, squinting at Wilford, “it is crucial to our executive functions. Crucial to ensuring that we--” he paused, eyes flashing dangerously, “--do not carry out our secondary objective too _early_.”

Bim and the Doctor exchanged another look.

Oliver, on the floor, started to smoke. 

Google_R ripped off the welding mask, oil dripping from his face. “Here.” He handed a handful of wires and a switchboard to Google_B, who took it with one hand without even pausing his typing. 

“How can you be so _calm_?” Bim ran forward to kneel by Oliver, fanning smoke away from his face. Oliver shook his head, muttering, eyes shut tight. Oil was beginning to leak from his chest, staining the carpet.  


Google_G sat back on his heels, looking down blankly. “It will be fine.” Google_R turned away.

Google_B finished his line of code with a ding, pushing himself away from the computer. A series of short whirrs, a spark, and whatever they’d been working on was finished. 

Bim looked up from cradling Oliver’s head to see Google_B hovering over him with a screwdriver. “What the--”

The horrible clang and then the screech of ripping metal-on-metal. Even Wilford covered his ears, wincing. Google_B ripped open a section of Oliver’s neck, stripping first the skin, then the wires. With movements too precise to not have been practiced, he wired in the tiny switchboard, not even looking up at Oliver’s face.

Bim reeled back, oil seeping into his pants. “Google, what--”

“Oliver is our test subject for things like this.” Google_B watched him, impassive, as Oliver’s systems started to boot up.   


“But you _hurt_  him!”  


Google_B was silent. Google_R dropped the wires he was fidgeting with and went to kneel by Google_G, looking down at Oliver. 

Emotions weren’t something that could be wired in, Bim figured, looking around at them. The anxiety in the air, the nervousness, all eyes on Oliver. This was something deeper than programming or lines of code. 

This was brotherhood. 

Oliver’s eyes fluttered open. 


End file.
